


And Bingo Was His Name-O

by extryn



Category: Doctor Who (2005)
Genre: Bladder Control, Bondage and Discipline, Dacryphilia, Dubious Consent, Hand Jobs, Humiliation, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Implied/Referenced Torture, Leashes, Light Angst, M/M, Master/Pet, Not Safe Sane and Consensual, Orgasm Control, Post-Episode AU: s03e13 Last of the Time Lords, Puppy Play, The Doctor Is A Masochist, The Master Has Issues
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-22
Updated: 2016-12-22
Packaged: 2018-09-11 03:45:14
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,006
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8952568
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/extryn/pseuds/extryn
Summary: ‘No. Absolutely not. You seriously think I’d…sell sexual favours to you, in return for Martha’s safety – who, might I add, hardly needs defending from you, if you remember – why, exactly?’





	

**Author's Note:**

> Welcome to one of the nine circles of Doctor/Master hell. Originally posted on my [tumblr](http://track-three.tumblr.com/post/154769770500%20) for a quick 'n' dirty writing prompt that ended up...less quick, but precisely as dirty as planned.
> 
> Some small inspiration ~~and probably a couple lines of dialogue~~ taken from tenlittlebullets's [Faithful Companion](http://archiveofourown.org/works/642579). What can I say - it's one of my favourites, and nothing else would have felt right. Check that one out, too, and everything she's written while you're at it.
> 
> Merry Christmas, filthy fans.

The Doctor tugged his hands out of his hair. Despite his scalp going numb some minutes ago, he hoped he could wrestle a little more sensation out of his nerve endings.  
   
It had the unfortunate side effect of rousing the Master, sitting cross-legged opposite him, who was subsequently goaded into making another attempt at communication.  
   
‘Are you just going to ignore me all day, then?’ he demanded.  
   
The Doctor massaged his eyebrows instead, lips pinched tight before he lost control of them. ‘Oh, don’t start.’  
   
The Master gave a theatrical sigh. ‘I’ll go lock myself in irons, then, shall I? Bet you’d like that.’  
   
He refused to rise to the bait. Instead, he rested his forehead in his hands, elbows propped on his knees, and tried to come up with a better idea that didn’t involve sitting here until a revelation dropped into his lap.  
   
‘Look at you, with your feelings all hurt. Aww. I’m so _very_ sorry.’  
   
Sighing deeply, the Doctor looked him in the eye. ‘Why?’  
   
The Master snorted.  
   
He shifted his chin into his palm, searching the Master’s face. He didn’t quite know what he was looking for.  
   
The Master raised his eyebrows. ‘Why do you think?’  
   
He shrugged. ‘Dunno. To get a rise out of me? To make me let you go?’  
   
‘Or maybe,’ the Master began, tapping his fingers against his chin. ‘Maybe I couldn’t care less what you think. Maybe, there isn’t some grand _explanation_. Perhaps I just wanted to see if her smug, surprised little face could mime a decent blowjob.’ He pursed his lips into a vulgar imitation of a shocked _‘O’_. ‘How was I supposed to know she couldn’t tell one end of a blaster from the other?’  
   
‘Oh, definitely not to get a rise from me, then,’ the Doctor bit back.  
   
He smiled sourly. ‘You might have to find another excuse, Doctor.’  
   
‘For what?’ the Doctor said, and felt his blood boil.  
   
‘Keeping me. Before you realise your precious conscience has nothing to do with it.’  
   
The Doctor sighed harshly. ‘What do you _want?_ ’  
   
‘A deal, now? You’ve got to be kidding me,’ the Master scoffed.  
   
‘If that’s what it takes,’ the Doctor murmured, only realising what he’d said once the words had come out of their own accord. Silence settled out between them like sour milk. The Doctor noted that the stalemate had ticked into its fifth hour – of which his head and neck had been aching for at least three.  
   
‘Right,’ the Master said abruptly, and sat up and crossed his arms. Something that the Doctor decidedly did not like began to flicker in the gold of his eyes. ‘I want you, on your hands and knees, begging like a dog.’  
   
‘Oh, come on,’ the Doctor groaned, rolling his eyes.  
   
‘—Begging like a dog, wagging your tail, lifting your leg to piss, the whole nine, er, _yards_.’  
   
The Doctor raised a completely sceptical eyebrow. ‘One, that’s twisted, even for you; and _two_ , exactly what in Rassilon’s name makes you think I’d do that?’  
   
The Master sat back, grinning slyly. ‘Because I’ll behave myself for, oh, three weeks. I’ll even let you go to Martha’s graduation.’  
   
His blood suddenly reversed directions, and then ran freezing cold. He fought the urge to swallow, and instead glared, his breath coming in a great rush. ‘How do you know about that?’  
   
‘It’s a mobile phone, Doctor. It’s not MI6,’ the Master pointed out.  
   
His hearts beat a panicked tattoo against his ribs, sending shockwaves into his stomach where it pressed up against them. The Doctor ignored them in favour of closing his eyes and shaking his head, a somewhat hysterical smile across his lips. ‘No. Absolutely not. You seriously think I’d…sell _sexual favours_ to you, in return for Martha’s safety – who, might I add, hardly needs defending from you, if you remember – why, exactly?’  
   
The Master feigned offense. ‘Oh, Doctor, you wound me. Sexual favours? Can’t I simply enjoy humiliating you?’  
   
‘See?’ the Doctor groused. ‘I rest my case. No.’  
   
He sighed and picked at spot of dry blood on his left cuff. ‘You didn’t seem to find the idea so disagreeable three months ago. Or the twelve before them.’  
   
The Doctor had no clemency left to give him. Not for that. It left his voice quiet, dead. ‘What choice did you _ever_ give me?’  
   
‘The same one you’re getting now,’ said the Master. ‘If giving up your precious morals for my sake was as repugnant as you make it sound, I’d be dead _long_ ago.’  
   
He found he’d crossed his arms at some point, hunched protectively around his body. ‘No.’  
   
But the Doctor couldn’t bring himself to leave, and instead found a furtive hand returning to tug on his hair. He kept going, round and round and round, until the hurt interrupted the vicious cycle in his mind. And then it simply began again.  
   
Time passed. The Master was staring at the floor, his face in a tight frown. The hum of the TARDIS was droning in the back of the Doctor’s mind, unchanged since they’d first returned from Neptune Three. The ache in his neck had now spread down to his back, and set up a cramp through his shoulders.  
   
The Master broke the silence. ‘I miss when things were simple.’  
   
‘When were they ever simple?’ the Doctor sighed, both exhausted and exasperated.  
   
‘We used to have fun. Chasing each other round Earth, playing with all those tin soldiers and officials as if they were chesspieces. It was good, wasn’t it?’  
   
‘Bit late, aren’t you?’ the Doctor said, glancing at him sidelong.  
   
The Master gave no response for several minutes. When he finally spoke, the sound was sudden enough to make the Doctor jump in his seat. ‘How else was I supposed to make you pay attention?’  
   
The Doctor frantically rewound the conversation in his head. ‘That’s not fair,’ was the eventual, well-worn reply. ‘That was your choice. Everything you’ve done has been your choice.’  
   
‘I think you’ll find it was yours, Doctor. After all, you left,’ he said, darkly, and the Doctor felt his heart leap into his throat at the flash of genuine hurt, after weeks of deception and pretence.  
   
‘Was there anything else left to make you listen?’ the Doctor said, unhappily. ‘And I’ve tried, Master. You don’t get to say I haven’t.’  
   
‘Bit late,’ the Master said, in a sour parody of the Doctor’s voice.  
   
The Doctor sighed.  
   
‘So here we are.’  
   
The Master nodded. ‘Here we are.’  
   
‘Is that really all you want?’ the Doctor asked, gingerly. ‘Because I’ve never stopped paying attention.’  
   
The Master huffed out a laugh, shaking his head in disbelief. ‘You don’t get it, do you?’  
   
‘I miss you,’ the Master admitted quietly. The Doctor fought to keep his jaw attached to his face.  
   
‘You what?’ the Doctor demanded, unsure if he ought to be angry, or elated, or—or, well, any impossible number of emotions he’d forgotten the Master could draw from him at the drop of a hat.  
   
He held the Doctor’s gaze, eyes solemn. ‘I miss you.’  
   
And oh, he saw this for what it really was. Another trick, another scheme, another battleground the Master was always more adept at than he. But he was tired.  
   
And underneath every good lie was a half-truth.  
   
‘Martha stays safe,’ the Doctor said, slowly. ‘You leave the TARDIS alone.’ He swallowed down a hesitation. ‘I follow your rules, you follow mine.’  
   
‘Cross my hearts, Doctor,’ the Master said, that glint back in his eyes, even as his face remained carefully held in what the Doctor could believe was yearning.  
   
The Doctor grimaced, and shucked his clothes. He didn’t know who had themselves the most fooled.

  
 

  
   
The grating was harsh, forcing most of his weight onto his palms in an attempt to protect his knees. The Master had himself propped up on the jumpseat, a faded old tennis ball tossed back and forth between his hands. The Doctor watched it obediently, his head darting with each change of direction.  
   
‘Fetch,’ ordered the Master, tossing the ball across the console room. The Doctor struggled to follow it, and winced with every shift of his weight on the awful iron floor. ‘Oh, you’re bloody useless, Doctor.’  
   
‘I can’t help it!’ the Doctor snapped, glaring up. ‘What do you want me to do?’  
   
The Master raised his eyebrows. ‘Dogs don’t speak.’

  
 

  
   
The Master dumped a sizeable bundle of what, to the Doctor, looked an awful lot like fetish-themed horse tack, onto the seat. He found a pair of knee-pads, holding them up to the Doctor, who started to wonder exactly when this had found its way onto the TARDIS, and with who.  
   
The Master affixed them to his legs, a process which involved spending far longer than necessary fondling the Doctor’s thighs and back. Hot spikes of fear rose up his spine at the sensation, which drew more attention than the Doctor could bear to his naked skin, to how he’d ended up here. Again.  
   
Next came a harness, seated snugly around the Doctor’s upper body. The gag, a thick piece of rubber that made talking unintelligible was almost a relief, until he realised that it also made drooling both profuse and unavoidable.  
   
The mittens, thickly padded leather things that completely nullified the use of his hands, were enough to make him panic as the Master deftly locked the buckles around his wrists. And the Master had laughed as he tried to tell him to stop in nothing but vowels and thick, dripping lines of saliva.  
   
The Doctor’s mind had frozen as a collar was buckled around his neck, suddenly unable to tell if he was here, or back on the Valiant, and it had all been a hallucination, or a delusion. And the feeling of slick fingers prying apart his buttocks, penetrating him to press lubricant inside, made tears prick at his eyes and he didn’t entirely know which kind of pain they came from. The Master brought a rubber tail in front of his face, ending in a thick, round bulb. He braced himself – and gratitude for the gag, clearly designed for biting, won out when the Master forced the plug inside him and it was the only thing that kept the tears from spilling out.  
   
‘There,’ the Master hummed, voice quiet and soothing. Ah – that one, too, was feigned – and if he hadn’t been so utterly bereft, naked and trussed up like some sort of toy, he might not have let it pierce him so deeply. He crawled closer to the Master and knelt up to reach the Master’s knee with his face, wishing for more of that simple comfort.  
   
The Master struck him lightly across the cheek. ‘Ah-ah, Rover. No jumping up.’  
   
The Doctor fought an old urge to cry. He didn’t let anything get in deep, anymore. And that left only one other option: to endure. The Doctor found himself caught between both, unsure which one would be the worse violation.  
   
‘Now, go fetch me a ball,’ the Master said, amicably. The Doctor nodded, and turned around, setting off towards the console where the tennis ball had rolled underneath. He flushed with shame as the motion set the thing inside him waving, making it wriggle back and forth with the move of his hips.  
   
‘Yes, that’s it.’  
   
His hands, encased in leather, wouldn’t let him grip anything – and gingerly, the Doctor dipped his head to reach the ball with his mouth. It was too massive to fit in his jaw, and he settled for nudging it with his nose until it rolled back out, where he could knock it with one fist back towards the Master.  
   
Something like claustrophobia was settling in, pressing in on him from all sides; his neck, his chest, his hands, his arse.  
   
‘Come here,’ the Master smiled. He petted the Doctor’s hair, ran nails along his scalp that sent pleasurable shivers down the Doctor’s neck. ‘You like that, hmm?’  
   
The Doctor attempted to speak, and succeeded only in letting a string of drool escape and attach itself to his chin. He bowed his head, hoping the Master wouldn’t notice.  
   
‘Oh, no, no, no,’ the Master shushed. ‘What do dogs do when they’re happy?’  
   
Gaze firmly anchored to the floor, the Master’s hand still in his hair, the Doctor bit down on his gag and clenched his sphincter muscles. The fake rubber tail slapped against his arse.  
   
The Master smiled magnanimously. ‘You’re a good boy.’  
   
Despite himself, the Doctor felt relief flow through him, and refused to call it anything else.  
 

 

  
   
‘You must be thirsty,’ the Master chuckled and nudged the Doctor closer with his foot, ‘after all that slobbering.’  
   
The Doctor eyed the ceramic bowl, sitting full of clean water next to a matching bowl of kibble, and felt himself pale. He tried to say _no_ , and instead his vowels came out garbled and thick with drool. He couldn’t explain, couldn’t make the Master _understand_ that he walked a line between what was unpleasant and what sent the Doctor head-first into his nightmares – ones the Master had created by his own hand.  
   
The swat to his flank was firm enough to smart, but the Doctor almost welcomed it. It was the words hissed in his ear that stung in ways he hadn’t expected.  
   
_Useless bitch._  
   
The Master tugged his leash, sending the Doctor lurching sideways as he scrambled on his hobbled limbs to keep up. He dragged him without mercy to a crate across the room and shoved him bodily inside with a kick of his leg. The door was latched shut, and the Doctor’s jaw went slack for a moment as he took stock of this new development.  
   
The Master was content to busy himself examining the trinkets tossed like garbage around this room. The Doctor only needed to lever the metal catch out of its clip, and the door would spring free. He pressed his face to the bars in the hope of getting some leverage.  
   
It was an infuriating exercise. The Doctor rose his bound hands instinctively, but they were far too bulky to have any use, and instead he found his palms aching as he dug his nails into them in frustration. He couldn’t get any purchase through the leather, leaving only his teeth – which wouldn’t meet around the gag. And certainly couldn’t grasp the little metal pin. He growled, trying to sink his teeth deeper into the rubber, which resisted him with more strength than he thought a plant resin had to offer.  
   
The Master hadn’t let his efforts go unnoticed. He spent the following hour ramping up the Doctor’s frustration by prodding him, pulling on the tail anchored inside him, ordering him to perfect dog noises that were simply impossible to articulate around a gag. Anger quickly gave way to resignation, and other, less honourable emotions.  
   
But the Master didn’t leave. Somehow, without being left cramped, debased and alone, the experience bordered on just the other side of horror.  
   
The Doctor hoped his attempts to wag his tail communicated gratitude.  
 

 

  
   
A slim tendril of fear slipped down the Doctor’s spine when he realised he wasn’t going to be freed in the evening. Long after the Master had retired, he found himself shivering on the floor, wrists and ankles loosely hogtied, unable to manoeuvre himself into a bed, unable to cover himself.  
   
Despite discomfort screaming from every inch of his body, sleep still came easily.  
   
The Doctor thought he must have been far more exhausted than he’d realised.  
 

 

  
   
The Doctor woke with a growing discomfort in his bladder, a cramp in his jaw, and his body convinced that the tail lodged inside actually _really_ needed to go, right now, and no possible means to communicate any of it. The Master was standing over him, clothed only in a silk robe, hair still mussed with sleep.  
   
‘Good morning, Bingo.’ the Master said, smiling.  
   
‘ _Aah ehhooh, aaaha_ ,’ the Doctor tried, and then with less tongue and more lips, ‘ _Hohht_. _Heesh_.’  
   
The Master grimaced. ‘I’m sorry, I only understand _dog_.’  
   
The Doctor whined, curling his padded fists to his stomach. Panic began to set in.  
   
‘Well, roll over like a good boy, and then you’ll get a _treat_ ,’ insisted the Master.  
   
The word rang out like a siren. Cautiously, the Doctor shifted onto his back, letting his limbs fall to one side. He was disconcertingly aware of his lack of clothes.  
   
The Master crouched down, running a hand over his belly. It made the Doctor shiver, wriggling away from the touch, but the Master followed his body and gave his stomach another rub, a little firmer this time. The Doctor wasn’t entirely convinced the Master didn’t instead know _precisely_ what he was trying to say.  
   
The Doctor tolerated the attention, clenching around his tail and panting in the hopes he’d earn some bonus points. Perhaps he had – the Master unclipped his wrists and ankles, and the Doctor shakily got onto all fours. The pressure on his bladder suddenly reversed, and the Doctor gasped with how urgent the need became.  
   
The Master slipped out of the room, and the Doctor fought to slow his breathing. Surely the ordeal was almost over.  
   
He returned with a metal bucket under his arm, which he placed between the Doctor’s knees. ‘Well, go on, then.’  
   
The Doctor raised an utterly incredulous eyebrow, betrayed only by his eyes, wide with shock. He wouldn’t. There was no possible way.  
   
‘Oh, Doctor, don’t look so upset,’ the Master said. He tapped his fingers against his chin. ‘I do seem to recall you specifically agreeing to this.’  
   
The Doctor shook his head, clenching his fingers within their heavy padding. His hiss of anger was muffled by the gag, and the drool collecting on his tongue.  
   
The Master sighed, a twinkle in his eyes. ‘Fine. We’ll try again later. Don’t know what I expected from a dumb animal.’  
 

 

  
   
The next two hours and thirty-seven minutes passed in impeccable, precise agony. The Doctor wandered around, unable to stay still, gasping each time he accidentally clenched his arse and the fullness inside him slammed closer to his bladder.  
   
At first, it had been nagging, and then it had been unbearable, and finally he was convinced he was going to wet himself and the Master would wring every little bit of enjoyment out of it. Humiliate him, the Master had said. The Doctor wanted to kick himself for having absolutely no idea how serious he’d been.  
   
Uncomfortable, yes, he’d seen that coming. But not this. Not into the next morning. And certainly not something so…well, base.  
   
And wasn’t this surely the plan, all along? The Master probably never intended to let him go. The Doctor’s hearts beat rapidly, trying and failing to find some way out of this without the use of his hands or mouth – or Rassilon forbid – his words. It was all startlingly clear, now. He’d fallen for it, no, he’d _chosen_ to fall for it. He’d offered up the perfect opportunity on a silver platter.  
   
And now he was living his worst nightmare, all over again.  
   
How long before the Master gained access to the TARDIS? Would he keep him like this anyway, some obscene…pet, _a sex toy_ , even once he had control of her?  
   
A spasm of pain shot down his stomach and back up his spine, and the Doctor hissed and clenched his knees together, catching his tail between them. Saliva frothed its way down his chin and strung its way to the floor.  
   
‘What’s up, Fido? Are you being a good boy?’  
   
The Doctor shook his head, looking up, hoping his eyes would say what his mouth was unable to.  
   
‘Show me you’re a good boy,’ the Master said, smiling.  
   
A whimper came out, a perfectly dog-like whimper, without the Doctor even realising he’d made it.  
   
The Master broke into a broad grin. He made a show of closing his book, setting it back on the shelf and neatly pushing his chair back into its place. The Doctor could feel tears filling behind his eyes, settling in his sinuses when he refused to let them fall. He was getting better at figuring out where they had come from.  
   
The Master retrieved the bucket and placed it between his feet again.  
   
For a second, the Doctor wasn’t sure if it was really worth it, if he couldn’t hold out longer – and then the weight of his bladder settled with renewed urgency, and he cocked a leg up, bit furiously down on his gag, and let go.  
 

 

  
   
Something broke inside him. The degradation of it, the fact that he’d _agreed_ to such abhorrent treatment, the _stupid, idiotic_ idea that somehow, something good might come out of this—  
   
Before he’d known it, the grief and the horror had bypassed themselves, and catapulted the Doctor into a sick, numb acceptance. The chances of the Master letting him go were slim. Either he waited for him to make a mistake, or until the entertainment wore off.  
   
He was quiet. He was obedient, in the hopes that the Master would find it boring. The more obedient, the better his chances it would at least take less than a year, this time.  
   
Peculiarly, on sensing this sudden loss of spirit, the Master was doing the opposite of what the Doctor had expected. Instead of amping up the Doctor’s discomfort, he was beginning a second hour of lying curled next to the Master in the library, warm hands stroking his hair, his naked back.  
   
The Doctor lay there, and took it.  
   
It seemed simpler when he accepted it – he allowed the reprieve, the gentle pleasure of being touched for what it was. It drew his attention away from the restraints digging into and within his body, the cramps in muscles unused to quadrupedal use. His mind was comfortingly blank without trying to think of escape. Without people to rely on him, he could let it be. It was an odd, upside-down form of freedom.  
   
‘Good boy,’ the Master murmured, pausing to turn a page, and then replacing his hand on the Doctor’s shoulders.  
   
The Doctor wagged his tail, humming with pleasure. He nuzzled into the Master’s thigh. The Master smiled, and didn’t stop.  
 

 

  
   
He hadn’t realised there was any resistance left in him, until the Master’s gentle, comforting hands had drifted lower, to take everything he had left. Fingers wandered over the sharp angles of his hips, curving around to where his cock laid limply against his thigh.  
   
The Doctor voiced his disapproval with a whine, high in the back of his throat, becoming a strained growl when the Master cupped his balls. The Master withdrew his hand, and for a moment, he almost thought—and then the Master closed his fingers around him and squeezed, and the Doctor shuddered in his hand and attempted to curl away.  
   
His eyes wide, the Doctor shook his head mutely, teeth clenched around the gag. The Master simply petted his hip twice, and resumed touching him, so intimately, the Doctor couldn’t help but imagine—except for with his lips stretched wide and cracked from the constant abrasion, his fingers sweaty and cramped in their mittens, his arse sore and full.  
   
So this was it, then. Two options.  
   
He was so tired of enduring.  
   
It was deceptively, freakishly easy to just _feel._ To let the Master touch him, to not think of who he was letting down or what was at stake, where the catch was, if he could forgive himself after. He allowed himself to grow fully hard, letting the Master stroke him firmer and longer. He could feel his orgasm coiling deep within him, mingling with the pressure in his arse, the long, slow rise of it, building with each thrust. He arched into the Master’s body, pressing his face to his side, ignoring the way saliva began to pool beneath his cheek.  
   
The Master worked him slowly, almost too slowly, and the Doctor let his body drift in an odd haze of pleasure and shame and fear and numbness, letting their claims all wash over him like waves in a pond.  
   
And abruptly, the Master stopped, turned his page, and left the Doctor hard and wanting.  
Patiently, the Doctor waited, and getting no response, he gave the Master a defeated whine.  
   
‘Beg,’ the Master smiled, peering at him around his book.  
   
The Doctor bit down, trying to think, to remember what he was supposed to do – and settled for whimpering, pawing at the Master’s leg, nudging him with his face. And before he realised, the words tried to come out of him – _please_ , a mish-mash of vowels that sounded unintelligible to the Doctor’s own ear.  
   
The Master snapped his book shut. ‘Bad dog. _Bad_ dog!’  
   
He rose to his feet, leaving the Doctor’s leash trailing on the floor, and closed the door to the reading room. The Doctor found himself abruptly alone, unable to turn the knob and follow. Alone and aroused.  
   
He instinctively reached down to take himself in hand, only to find his covered hands bat uselessly at his cock. He rubbed himself against the leather, but it was empty and so utterly _not enough_. His fingers strained at the mittens, as if he could rip them apart from sheer desperation alone. His cock was flagging, but the desire still weighed heavily inside him. The pressure of the plug was almost unbearable.  
   
He’d never been so completely at the mercy of his own body.  
 

 

  
   
The Doctor sat on his hind legs, waiting. The Master would come for him, surely, and be particularly pleased at the Doctor’s most excellent doggy pose, thank-you-very-much, and offer to finish getting him off.  
   
It was a good plan, except for being a very boring one. But he was already bored stiff, unable to open the books and read them, his hobbled ankles making walking more effort than it was worth.  
   
He practiced working his sphincter muscles, until he could make the tail wag sideways and hit the floor, creating a very authentic _thump_. What else did dogs do, when they were excited? The Doctor could only think of K9, who without any language, was more than a little stoic.  
   
Jumping. Dogs jumped – oh, but that was against the rules, wasn’t it? But dogs _certainly_ broke rules when they were excited, and really, wasn’t that the whole point of the exercise?  
   
The Doctor practiced his tail-wagging once more, rearranged his paws, and waited.  
 

 

  
   
‘Who’s a good boy? Who’s a good boy?’ the Master cooed, tugging on the other end of the Doctor’s favourite tie. The Doctor struggled to keep a hold of it between his teeth, even knotted as it was, growling and huffing and pawing at the floor. He could feel sweat beginning to break on his forehead – it was more tiring than it looked, tug-of-war.  
   
The Master suddenly let go of the tie, sending the Doctor floundering backwards, landing painfully on his arse and the chunk of rubber inside it. He yelped, which sent the Master laughing, and then the Doctor was too, until he finally remembered – dogs didn’t laugh.  
   
The Master was glaring at him, a rolled-up newspaper raised in one hand. The Doctor tucked his tail between his legs, bowing his head, and whined. He pleaded at the Master through his lashes, more afraid of being a bad boy than any punishment that he might have earned.  
   
The Master looked thoughtful. ‘Sit.’  
   
The Doctor pushed himself back onto his tail, wincing, until he found a comfortable spot.  
   
‘Roll over.’  
   
Scrambling, he laid on his back, posing his limbs up in the air.  
   
‘Oh, good dog!’ the Master exclaimed, rubbing his tummy.  
 

 

  
   
The Master fiddled with his gag. The Doctor had assumed he was tightening it – and then the heavy leather strap was released from the back of his neck, and the bit pried out of his mouth.  
   
Oh, blimey. That hurt.  
   
The Doctor worked his jaw, eyes pinched shut as his muscles vehemently disagreed with the action, and tried to figure out what was going on—  
   
‘That’s it, Doctor. You can speak, now.’  
   
The Doctor tilted his head.  
   
‘Well, go on,’ the Master scowled, picking up a front paw and unbuckling its mitt.  
   
He huffed out a soft, low bark. This wasn’t in the rules.  
   
The Master finished his right paw, and quickly freed his left. ‘We’re done. Go on, take it all off, have a bath. You smell like dog food.’  
   
The Doctor’s jaw fell open, half from shock, and half from discomfort. ‘Yuh…yuh seruhs?’ he tried, and then massaged his cheek. ‘Really?’  
   
The Master looked at him as if he’d suddenly turned human. ‘Yes?’  
   
‘Oh,’ the Doctor said, cringing at the sound of his own voice. ‘That felt…a lot quicker. Than I thought.’  
   
‘It’s only been four days,’ the Master shrugged, ‘Anymore and I’d be concerned for your hygiene. Bath, Doctor. Now.’  
   
Processing this information, the Doctor twisted to unbuckle his collar. His fingers felt fat, useless. They seemed a little swollen, truth be told, and…oh. The Doctor wrinkled his nose. Four day old dead skin, and dark, damp heat.  
   
He wriggled his way out of the body harness, but the ankle cuffs were more of a struggle. The Master lost interest, at some point in time in the process. The Doctor winced as he began to ease the plug out of him, with a _lot_ more pain than he’d felt coming in, but oh, _oh_ , the _relief_.  
   
Only then did he attempt to push himself up on two legs, and immediately sit back down as his muscles cramped fiercely. The TARDIS took pity on him, and moved his favourite bathroom only a couple of pained steps down the hall.  
 

 

  
   
The Doctor ran his hands through his hair, setting the damp strands into spikes. His suit felt good – a little overwhelming, after being naked, but good. He found himself seeking out the Master, wandering through the TARDIS, whistling some old Gallifreyan ditty.  
   
He cleared his throat, knocked cautiously, and let himself in. ‘Um, Master?’  
   
‘Yes, Doctor?’ came the reply. The Master closed a notebook and turned in his armchair, leaning around to face the Doctor.  
   
‘Thank you,’ the Doctor said, the words coming out of their own accord. ‘For keeping your word.’  
   
The Master raised an eyebrow at him. ‘What did you expect?’  
   
‘Dunno,’ said the Doctor. ‘Worse. Less worse? For everything to come down around my ears, one way or another.’  
   
‘I kept my word, and you kept yours,’ said the Master. ‘Is that really so difficult to process?’  
   
‘Suppose it is,’ mumbled the Doctor. ‘Anyway, let me know if you want lunch, or…something.’  
   
The Master gave him an amused, almost cheeky smile. ‘You did well, you know. I hardly made it easy for you.’  
   
‘No,’ agreed the Doctor, ‘You didn’t.’ His face felt warm at the weird sort of praise. He reflexively shoved his hands in his pockets.  
   
‘There were a couple of times you disappointed me, but you gave it a commendable effort,’ the Master approved, giving a curt nod.  
   
‘At humiliating myself?’ snorted the Doctor, raising an eyebrow. ‘Glad I’ve found my hidden talent.’  
   
The Master laughed, then, and not entirely pleasantly. ‘No, Doctor. At _pleasing_ me.’  
   
‘Oh,’ said the Doctor, for an umpteenth time. ‘Did I? Please you, I mean?’  
   
The Master looked at him, and rose from his chair. He drew closer, face drawn and unreadable, until he was inches from the Doctor’s mouth. The Doctor felt something rise up his throat – apprehension, maybe, certainly something in the _fear_ category. He took the Doctor’s chin in one hand, nudging it upwards where the Doctor had let it hunch down in embarrassment, the rest of the Doctor’s body straightening to allow the movement.  ‘ _Yes_ , Doctor,’ he finally said, a little smile playing at the corners of his mouth. ‘Obviously.’  
   
The Doctor grinned himself, unable to help it. He felt exhilarated. ‘Oh,’ he said, again.  
 

 

 _fin._  
   
‘Martha!’ the Doctor cried, ‘No, I’m sorry, _Doctor_ Martha Jones.’ He pulled her into a fierce hug, squeezing twice as hard when she returned it. He broke off, quickly, grabbing Francine’s hand. ‘Oh, your daughter is brilliant, just brilliant!’  
   
‘I know,’ smirked Francine, making no effort to reciprocate. ‘And she certainly doesn’t need a piece of paper to prove it.’  
   
The Doctor laughed, ‘No, but the paper’s nice, isn’t it?’  
   
‘It is,’ butted in Clive. ‘How have you been?’  
   
‘Oh, same old, same old,’ said the Doctor. Martha waved goodbye and headed upstairs to meet the rest of the students. He took seats with the Jones family. ‘How long until it starts? I could do with some of those little sandwiches. You know, the ones they cut into triangles.’  
   
Francine gave him a look. ‘What about _him_? I still don’t understand why on Earth you’d—’  
   
‘Nah, he’s gone,’ lied the Doctor, ‘Took him to the Shadow Proclamation. Not that they can hold him, really, but…’  
   
‘It’s justice,’ Francine nodded, ‘And that’s something. Considering you were the one who got my daughter involved in all of it, I’m not sure I’m allowed to be proud. But I know she would be.’  
   
The Doctor looked at his feet. ‘I’m sure she would.’  
   
Something buzzed in his pocket. ‘Oh, ‘scuse me, I should probably…bet it’s Jack, Martha probably told everyone under the sun I was in town,’ the Doctor muttered, pulling out Martha’s old phone.  
   
Odd. The number was coming from the TARDIS. The Doctor excused himself, stepping to the side of the row.  
   
_‘Hello, Doctor.’_  
   
‘Is everything okay?’ the Doctor blurted instinctively. ‘No alarms, nothing broken?’  
   
_‘Oh, nothing’s broken at all. In fact, I think I’ve repaired a few things.’_  
   
The Doctor frowned. ‘Is that what you called to tell me?’  
   
‘ _Sort of. Not really. Actually, I called to let you know, Toto, that I’ve ah, planted a bomb on the stage._ ’  
   
Glancing around him, the Doctor ducked his head and cupped the mouthpiece to hiss into the phone. ‘You did _what_!’  
   
_‘Technically_ I _didn’t plant the bomb, it’s one of those student groups…oh, you know the ones. Angry, lots of flyers, silly petition forms._ ’  
   
The Doctor fought the urge to slump onto the floor. ‘I can’t believe you’d…after _everything_ , everything I’ve done?’  
   
‘ _Oh, Doctor. You know the thing about kicked puppies?_ ’  
   
‘How,’ growled the Doctor. ‘How did you get it in here. For Rassilon’s sake, we had a _deal_!’  
   
_‘They still come back to you. Begging to be kicked again._ ’  
   
The Doctor ran a hand through his hair, looking around for anything – something suspicious, a student where they shouldn’t be, a good vantage point – ‘What is it, Master? Do you want me to beg? Want me to get on my hands and knees, in front of everybody, and bloody _bark_? Will that make you happy? Just tell me where it is!’  
   
‘ _Goodbye, Doctor._ ’  
   
The Doctor snapped the phone shut, staring at it blankly. People milled around him, smiling, cameras snapping photos of the hall. He felt as if someone had taken the bottom out of him.  
   
He fought his way through the crowd back to Martha’s family.  
   
‘Any news?’ asked Francine, smiling.  
   
‘Uh,’ began the Doctor, grabbing his hair again, ‘I’m sorry, yes. Bad news. Really, Francine, I am so sorry, but I have to go.’  
   
He watched her smile melt off her face, a glare blazing out of its ashes. ‘You can’t _go._ This is her graduation! After everything you put her through, the _least_ you can do…you have a bloody time machine!’  
   
‘Damaged time machine,’ the Doctor blurted, ‘Doesn’t really work, I’m sorry…’  
   
‘Whatever it is, it’s not as important as my daughter,’ Francine hissed, prodding him with her finger. ‘Don’t you _dare_.’  
   
The Doctor looked away. ‘You’re right,’ he said, his voice shaking. ‘That’s why I have to go.’  
   
He stalked away, gaze fixed on the tops of his trainers. It hid the tears from view. They came freely, this time.  
   
And this time he could no longer ignore why.


End file.
